


i claim you still

by malfaux



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Clothed Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetry, jehan is turned on by poems about death, jehan u lil freak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaux/pseuds/malfaux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Montparnasse's voice drops to a purr, and he smirks, so self-assured (it's a wonder how he can be so cocky now when on Wednesday Jehan made him come again and again and again until he cried), smugness practically radiating from him. He expects Jehan to swoon, throw himself into his arms, maybe bat his eyelashes a little. He forgets so easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i claim you still

As much as Jehan hates to indulge Montparnasse's flagrant narcissism, he has to admit, Montparnasse is _pretty_. Despite the fact that he's supposed to be midway through Browning's "Evelyn Hope", he can't help but watch Montparnasse out of the corner of his eye, lying sprawled as he is on the bed next to him. He's bored, he can tell. Occasionally, he chances a glance in Jehan's direction, apparently above demanding his attention in a more direct manner, although as Jehan turns the page, Montparnasse heaves a sigh. The paper is dry and unyielding, even if the prose is less so. From prior experience, Jehan knows that Montparnasse's skin is soft, under his (deliberately, no doubt) ratty t-shirt--he could write poems about the curve of his waist, honestly. Montparnasse sighs again, apparently intent on dramatics, and Jehan decides to take pity on him, although he keeps his eyes glued to the book in front of him.

"Shall I read you some poetry?" Jehan asks him. He doesn't need to look over at him to know that he's scowling, and it takes every effort to keep himself from smiling.

"I hate poetry." He shifts closer, and Jehan lets him pull the book from his grasp. Montparnasse looks so pleased with himself for managing it that Jehan almost feels bad about making it so easy for him. He peers at it with obvious distaste before discarding it, in favor of propping himself up on his elbows in order to study Jehan, then, with none of the distaste that had just been there previously. "We could do _other_ things." Sometimes Montparnasse fancies himself a master of seduction, and it would--possibly--be effective if it weren't so _obvious_ , to Jehan, at least. His voice drops to a purr, and he smirks like he's doing now, so self-assured (it's a wonder how he can be so cocky now when on Wednesday Jehan made him come again and again and again until he cried), smugness practically radiating from him. He expects Jehan to swoon, throw himself into his arms, maybe bat his eyelashes a little. He forgets so easily.

"Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead," he informs him, and Montparnasse's expression abruptly shifts to one of bewilderment. Jehan almost laughs, but instead, he continues. "Sit and watch by her side for an hour. That is her bookshelf, this is her bed--" He shifts, leaning in towards Montparnasse, and Montparnasse, still obviously confused, automatically retreats. When Jehan reaches out to cup his jaw, however, he leans into his touch, relaxing a little. "I don't need the book to recite poetry to you, Montparnasse," he murmurs, before kissing him chastely. Montparnasse's lips are soft, his skin equally so. Like himself, Jehan is fairly certain that he couldn't grow a beard if he tried.

"What's the point in memorizing poetry if you have it in a book?" Montparnasse asks him suspiciously, a question that in itself was somewhat disingenuous, as Jehan very much doubted that Montparnasse would see the point of memorizing a poem even if he didn't have it in a book. He tries to kiss Jehan, doubtless with some degree of obscenity, and Jehan presses him back against the bed firmly. He doesn't try it again, and to reward him, Jehan digs his fingers into a bruise from earlier, just barely visible past the collar of his t-shirt. Montparnasse's breath hitches, and his hips cant, just barely. He has always been easy to read.

"She plucked that piece of geranium flower." Montparnasse groans frustratedly, and Jehan chases the sound, kissing him in a decidedly less chaste fashion than earlier. He doesn't taste like cigarettes, for once. "I don't think you care very much about poor Evelyn Hope," he sighs with mock disappointment, ducking his head to press a kiss to his neck.

"Fuck Evelyn Hope," Montparnasse manages, his eyes fluttering closed as Jehan bites. Jehan pauses and looks up at him reproachfully. Montparnasse has the decency to look mildly apologetic, although Jehan is fairly certain it's more out of deference to Jehan than respect for Robert Browning. There are some that he can change about Montparnasse, and there are some tasks that are beyond the ability of any mortal being. Instilling an appreciation for poetry in him is, unfortunately, the latter. Jehan rucks up his shirt, and Montparnasse jumps as he slides his fingertips across his skin. When Jehan slots his knee in between his legs, he finds him already hard, a formidable task in itself given how tight his jeans are. Jehan knows this from experience, given that he owns a pair himself in a different color, in a shade that Montparnasse affectionately refers to as 'puke neon'. Montparnasse's occasional jabs at Jehan's wardrobe don't offend him; instead, he pities him, as his being unable to share his fashion vision is really just his loss, and besides, Montparnasse owns about twelve leather jackets, and they all look exactly the same.

"If you don't want to listen to me recite poetry, you can leave," Jehan informs him with a frown, sliding his hand down to unbutton Montparnasse's jeans. He isn't far gone enough to rut against Jehan's thigh, but Jehan's hand so close to where he wants it is too much of a temptation, apparently, and he arches instinctively, flushing with shame shortly thereafter at his eagerness. "Or you can apologize."

"Fuck you." He closes his eyes again, frustrated. " _Jehan_." Jehan halts entirely, his hand freezing. When it becomes apparent that he's not going to move until Montparnasse acquiesces, Montparnasse curses again, but he doesn't move to push Jehan off of him, or touch himself, or anything. It's a little flattering--these days, even when they don't use restraints, Montparnasse knows better. Jehan tucks his hair behind his ear, waiting for Montparnasse to give in, and eventually he does, even if his apology is muttered and sullen. He unzips Montparnasse's jeans slowly and deliberately, ignoring his own desires for now. His boxer briefs are already damp with precome, and Jehan slides a hand into them, grasping him loosely. Montparnasse gasps, his fingers fisting the bedsheets, as if to anchor himself. Jehan likes the sounds that Montparnasse makes, even if they're impossible to capture as poetry beyond a clumsy collection of vowels. Jehan likes to think that his writing is a little more subtle than that; just as Georgia O'Keefe disguised her vaginae as desert flowers, Jehan works simile and metaphor until the bruises on Montparnasse's hipbones are violets and driven snow. Now, he leans in, brushing his lips against the curve of his jaw. 

"--beginning to die too, in the glass," he whispers into his ear, and Montparnasse bucks up into his palm frustratedly, although Jehan maintains the same slow, steady pace. His cock is hard and heavy in Jehan's hand, and Jehan thumbs the head, earning a bitten back whine. He thinks back to Montparnasse smirking and arrogant as he watches him flushed and squirming on the bed beneath him, and he smiles a little, pleased with himself. "Little has changed, I think. The shutters are shut, no light may pass--" His grip tightens a little as Montparnasse tries to arch into his touch again, a warning, and he bites his lip hard, and stills. Somehow, the shape of his hand under Montparnasse's boxers (black boxer briefs, probably expensive, Jehan imagines, which makes him feel a little bad that they're already soaked through) makes this seem more obscene than it would be if he was unclothed entirely, and he reddens a little at the sight, nearly stumbling over the next line. "--save two long rays through the hinge's chink." The way his voice catches makes it obvious how much this is affecting him, but thankfully, it doesn't seem to go to Montparnasse's head, as he has more pressing concerns at the moment. "That's one stanza. What do you think of Robert Browning?"

" _Fuck_ Robert Browning, fuck Evelyn, fuck, fuck, fuck--"

"Eloquent! Maybe you should be a poet." That earns him a hazy glare, and Jehan retaliates by working him roughly, how he knows he likes it. The glare vanishes and Montparnasse whimpers, spreading his legs further, as if that would encourage him to go faster. Jehan decides that this means that he wants to hear more Browning. "Sixteen years old when she died. Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name." Montparnasse's frustrated growl makes it apparent that he does not, in fact, want to hear more Browning, but Jehan decides against being offended in Browning's stead and tangles his free hand in Montparnasse's hair, mussing it terribly. He's too far gone to complain, though. Jehan kisses him again, apologetically, working him in earnest towards his climax. He doesn't tarry, now, dropping his voice and murmuring into his ear, the poem barely audible over Montparnasse's gasps, and just as he tells him _your soul was pure and true_ , in between mouthing at his neck, he comes with an incoherent whimper, spilling himself into Jehan's hand and his own expensive boxer briefs. When Jehan releases him and pulls his hand out, they're sodden.

Montparnasse thankfully, isn't in any state to complain. Instead, he's glorious, in an artful state of disarray. His shirt is pushed up, his hair ruined, his legs still spread; he is flushed, dazed, panting. Jehan is very, very fond of him, and as his heart swells, he kisses him again, this time gently. When he pulls away, he replaces his mouth with his fingers. Montparnasse lets him push them into his mouth, licking him clean of his own come, without so much as an exasperated sigh. He's always sleepy and pliant after this, and Jehan likes that as much as he likes him hard and desperate. It's almost enough to make him forget about how hard and desperate _he_ is, currently, but not quite. 

Montparnasse picks up on it quickly. He's selfish, certainly, but he isn't stupid. "You didn't finish," he manages, once he's recovered a little. Jehan grins. 

"You're right, we're not nearly done with Evelyn Hope yet," he tells him breathlessly. Montparnasse blinks, and curses weakly. "The good stars met in your horoscope," Jehan begins again brightly, reaching down to work on tugging Montparnasse's jeans off entirely. Two stanzas down, five to go.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up and leave me prompts/make friends with me at malfaux.tumblr.com i gotta get through this writer's blocKkKkk 
> 
> (poem is Robert Browning's "Evelyn Hope")


End file.
